Sin City
by stress
Summary: Before Las Vegas, there was New York City... Twenty four hours in the lives of five newsboys in 1899 Manhattan.
1. August 15, 1899

Disclaimer: _I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original characters shamelessly borrowed from _Newsies – _they are the property of Disney, © 1992. Any other character, when noted, is the property of this author._

_--_

Sin City

--

_Before Las Vegas, there was New York City...  
_One day in the life of five newsboys in 1899 Manhattan.

--

_And everything seemed to be going so well… _

--

Have you ever heard of _Sin__ City_ before? _Sin__ City_, of course,being the nickname of any urban area (a city or a part of a city) that caters to various vices: drinking, gambling, prostitution and the like, where the vice is legal or, at best, tolerated. If you have, you might think that Las Vegas is the _Sin__ City_. But Vegas did not come about until the 20th century…

Long before Las Vegas, there was New York City. And to the poor orphans and ragged runaways who made the streets of Manhattan their home at the end of the 19th century, those street rats lived, breathed and existed in the squalor that epitomized the very essence of a _Sin City_.

--

The night of August 15, 1899 begins as most Manhattan nights do: dark and unassuming, quiet and uneventful. But this night, this one night, will prove to be anything but quiet or uneventful or even unassuming for the five boys in this story. It is dark though – and it is in this darkness that secrets are kept and promises are broken. The dark of night is the time for sin to flourish and on this night, flourish it does.

It is on this night that each of these five boys, newsboys by trade and toil, will be forced to come face to face with each of their own shortcomings, to battle their own innermost demons, to survive their flaws, if they could, and correct their mistakes before it is too late. But it will be too late. For all of them. Unfortunately.

As the sun sets over the dismal and busy city, night settles in, and virtue fades until the morning, not a one of these boys suspects what will befall each of them by the time the next twenty-four hours has passed: one will be heartbroken, one will be alone, one will betray, one will be betrayed and one, well, one will be dead.

Sin does not come without a cost. It is just a matter of time before their vices and their faults and their poor choices catch up with them; it is just a matter of time before they are compelled to pay the price for their indiscretions.

And everything had seemed to be going so well, too…


	2. August 15, 1899 8:00 pm

Author's Note: _Well, I'll be honest. The first chapter (the prologue) was just a little something that popped in my head. I wanted to see how it was received before I started the real story and was pleased to see that people actually read the teaser. Therefore, I started it (as you can see). Woot. _

_Real quick, though; this story is going to be _very _different from other stories. First of all, I'm trying to get better control of my tenses (ack), so I'm trying to do this in present tense. I don't know how well that will work but here's hoping. I went back and redid the prologue so that it matched so yeah. Also, I hope to keep this short and choppy. Not every chapter will feature all five boys but the time will be consistent. This story will take twenty four hours and you will see how they play out. Think of it as our own personal Newsies-type 24. Props to anyone who knows the lead quotes, though! _

_I hope you guys like this and, if you do, let me know what you think. I am very wary about this but it begged to be written so it was. Don't blame me. Blame Jack!muse. He really is a pain in the next sometimes. _

Disclaimer: _I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original characters shamelessly borrowed from _Newsies – _they are the property of Disney, © 1992. Any other character, when noted, is the property of this author._

_--_

Sin City

--

_Before Las Vegas, there was New York City...  
_One day in the life of five newsboys in 1899 Manhattan.

--

_Aw, sugar, you just gone and done the dumbest thing in your whole life. _

_--_

**8:13 p.m. **

Jack Kelly knows that he should not be doing this. It is wrong, it is, and if he has any sense, any sense at all, he would put out that cigarette clenched tightly between his teeth, head towards Duane Street instead and go to the lodging house for the night.

But he does not have any sense because, at that moment, he is no longer thinking with his head. Or, at least, not the right one. His head is clouded and overrun with undeniable lust; he knows nothing else. He has to continue on his sin-filled journey if only to find a much needed release that will help to clear his head of such perverse notions.

Maybe with a clear head he will be able to understand just what it is that keeps him returning to her. Because, with his mind flooded with thoughts of fevered touches, soft flesh and climactic escapes of his flawed existence, Jack does not understand anything at all.

So, his mind preoccupied with flashes of a thigh or a bare breast, Jack continues to puff anxiously away on his cigarette. It is his relief, a private vice of his that helps him to make sense of his actions. Jack loves Sarah Jacobs, he knows this, and it is that love, he reasons, that entices him to return, and to continue to return, to his whore.

How could he tell Sarah – his sweet, innocent _Sarah_ – that there is something he desires, something he needs, something that he could never ask her to provide? That, long before he met her, he had been having his lust slaked by a girl that worked the streets and sold her body in order to survive? That, even after asking Sarah to be his girl, he still feels the urge to return to a mere harlot?

Jack could not. And that is why he is holding his head down, full of shame at his weakness, as he makes his way to his whore. He knows that he does not love her in the same way that he loves Sarah but he needs her more now. He needs this girl of the night to hold him and pleasure him and set him free.

It is only when Jack is free that he can soar.

--

**8:27 p.m. **

Mush Meyers knows that he should not be doing this. It is not the smartest thing, after all, to keep an entire year's worth of earnings hidden in his lodging house locker. How hard would it be, really, for one of the boys to pull on the loose door and jimmy it until it opens up? It would not be that hard and, if one of the boys did just that, they would find nine dollars and fifty four cents (and three shiny buttons; he likes shiny buttons): Mush's savings.

He is saving up for a pair of new shoes with matching laces; he has been for close to a year now. His shoes are run down to the sole and he knows that he will not make it through another harsh New York winter in this pair. So he saves. And he keeps all of that money tucked inside the small square compartment.

Sometimes Mush thinks about the fellows that he lodges with in the Duane Street House and he wonders if any of them know about his money or if they would take it if they did know. But then he remembers that the other boys have their own lockers where they keep their own belongings hidden away. Why would they need to go looking through his?

Mush is too naïve, too trustworthy, too honest for his own good. And that will end up hurting him.

But for that moment, at close to half past eight on August 15th, Mush is not thinking about someone who might betray his trust and steal his money. He is just thinking about the new shoes that he will be able to purchase soon. The ones he saw, the pair that he has been saving up for ten months now, are ten dollars. If he scrimps and saves and shares the occasional glass of sarsaparilla with Kid Blink, he will be able to afford the shoes before the first winter chill finds its way to Manhattan.

It is those shoes, with their matching laces, that Mush is thinking of as he enters the locker and puts away the sixteen cents he made that day.

--

**8:30 p.m. **

Skittery Daniels knows that he should not be doing this. She had told him explicitly the evening before that she never wanted to see him again. There were tears and screams and profanity-laced statements – all coming from the good Christian girl. He had not known that she knew any of those words; the vulgarity of her language almost surprised him more than her wish to never speak with him again.

_Almost_.

He jams his ink-stained hands into the pockets of his faded trousers as he navigates his way through the dark and empty streets. The void with which he finds himself echoes the void that replaced his heart when she ran away from him. But he is not letting her go without a fight. He loves her too much.

A strange notion. Before her, Skittery loved himself and that was good enough for him. But then she was there. It was on the eve of the brilliant strike of July that he met her. He had stopped to deliver the newspaper that Cowboy and the Mouth had created; she answered the door to the sewing shop where she worked.

It had been infatuation at first sight. Her fair hair, pulled out of her face by a ratty neckerchief, her blue eyes mildly amused at the way he removed his hat and tried to flatten his unruly brown hair. He could not get her out of his mind and, when the strike had been resolved, he returned to her shop that next evening. He did so every evening for a week before she finally accepted the invitation he repeatedly offered.

They had spent every evening together since then but it had ended abruptly last night with her insistence that he forget about her.

Skittery can not do that. He knows that. He loves her just too much.

Her shift at the sewing shop ends at eight. She takes her time strolling back to the apartment she shares with her mother and little brother – it is her alone time, she says – and would not arrive until far after eight-thirty.

It is his intent to make it outside of her apartment before she arrives and wait for her. Maybe then she could explain what had brought on such a sudden change of heart.

Because Skittery sure as hell does not know.

--

**8:48 p.m. **

David Jacobs knows that he should not be doing this. Jack is his friend, he is, and he deserves to have more faith placed in him that David is currently awarding him. Hadn't it been Jack who gave up everything – money, security, _his dreams _– just to come back to the boys and help them beat Old Man Pulitzer in last month's strike?

True, it also had been Jack who betrayed them to begin with, going scab and all, but he _had _come back. Doesn't that count for something? He had the opportunity to get on a train to Santa Fe and get out of New York, and he had given that up. He had stayed behind.

And _this _is how David repays his sacrifices? By sneaking around, walking a block behind him, following him in whichever direction he took?

But every time his sense of honor begins to insist that he forget this silly notion of spying, his thoughts fall back on his sister. He remembers how anxious she is now, how defensive she has become in these last few weeks. And he continues following his friend, making sure that his silhouette, nearly swallowed up entirely by the embrace of the dark, remains in his sight.

_Jack's becoming distant_, he remembers Sarah telling him. She had been almost in tears as she fought to get the words out. _And I don't think he loves me anymore._ _Is there something going on in his life that he has not told me, David? Is there something I can do? Something you can do? _

David had not had an answer for Sarah but he promised her he would find out. And that is how he found himself shuffling his feet in an attempt to catch up with Jack but, at the same time, not catch up with him. He doubts that he would be able learn the truth of what Jack is up to if the boy is found out.

In the last six days, since the talk he had had with Sarah, David had tried to cleverly get some kind of answer out of Jack. He asked him all sorts of questions but received no response. Though Jack seemed much quieter than usual and smoked significantly more than he had during the strike, David noticed no signs that Sarah's fears were more than mild paranoia.

But he is her brother and he could knows that he would never be able to respect himself again if he does not do everything that he can for her. So, at eight o'clock, when Jack had declined an invitation for an evening supper with the Jacobs family – which only tightened David's resolve to learn what Jack was up to; in the month that David had known Jack Kelly, he had not _once _turned down a free meal or an opportunity to see Sarah – David had said good night but he did not return alone to his family's apartment. Instead, he set off after Jack. For Sarah's sake, you see.

Blood is thicker than water, after all.

--

**8:59 p.m. **

Racetrack Higgins knows that he should not be doing this. For a kid who prides himself on his street smarts and his ability to get out of every tight spot that he routinely finds himself in, he knows that it is probably one of the dumbest ideas he has ever had to go meet Mouse McGuire at nine o'clock on a dark street eight blocks away from the lodging house – eight blocks away from refuge should he need it.

But Race also knows that is an even dumber idea to refuse a 'request' to speak with Mouse. Too many of his pals from down at Sheepshead's had already learned that lesson. Race did not plan on adding his name to Mouse's ever growing list of victims.

It is warm for an August evening but he is shivering. It is not from the weather but, instead, from nerves. He has never had nighttime dealings with Mouse before; this is his first time. He knows that this is not a good sign.

Maybe he should never have bet one of McGuire's goons on bum odds. He should have known better, really. You lay too many bets and, sooner or later, you are going to get dealt a bad hand. It don't work and Race knows that. He just learned that a little too late.

There is only a minute left to get to the street corner designated by Mouse. Race pushes himself to cross the last two blocks before he is late. He is procrastinator, and he has proven it that night remaining at the lodging house, chatting it up with Itey and Snitch, far past the time he should have left by. He is paying for it now, racing to meet Mouse at the stroke of nine.

It is bad enough that he owes Mouse seven dollars. He does not want to disrespect the ruthless bookie by arriving late.

Mouse McGuire does bad things to those who disrespect him.


	3. August 15, 1899 9:00 pm

Author's Note: _I've said it many times before, and I'll say it many times again (I'm sure) but a good reception (and good reviews) entice me to write quickly. Rather than do Diabo (whoops), I thought I would work on this today. I had the idea for Race meeting Mouse and I could not get it out of my head (which just goes to show you how sick in the head I really am). _

_As you will see, I plan on giving one character each chapter (more or less) one really intense scene until the story gets further along. Mainly that's because I'm lazy and don't want really long chapters but it's also because it sets the pace of the story better. So, yeah, I'll go with that excuse._

_Now, for this chapter (hopefully you guys read these notes, otherwise sucks to be you if you're squeamish), there is a bit of a squicky scene. If you don't like death or anything remotely sadistic, skip until 9:13 p.m. Don't say I didn't warn you :)_

Disclaimer: _I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original characters shamelessly borrowed from _Newsies – _they are the property of Disney, © 1992. Any other character, when noted, is the property of this author._

_--_

Sin City

--

_Before Las Vegas, there was New York City...  
_One day in the life of five newsboys in 1899 Manhattan.

--

_I try to slow my heart down and breathe the fire out of my lungs._

--

**9:01 p.m.**

Racetrack gets to the appointed street corner just as the minute hand moves from 9:00 to 9:01. He is lucky. Mouse has not arrived yet. He can play it off like he's been waiting all along when the bookie shows up.

But, wait…

Is that a hiss coming for the adjacent alley, just off of the corner? Or, perhaps, a squeak? A mouse's squeak?

Race gulps and keeps his face straight. Slowly, he cocks an ear in the direction of the alleyway. He hears the sound again. It is not a hiss. It is not a squeak. It is a whisper.

"Higgins. Down here."

He gulps again. He knows that voice. It's Benny, Mouse McGuire's top goon. Of course that oaf would be there for the meeting. Protection for Mouse and all that jazz.

"Hey, Mouse. Boys," he greets as he allows the dark alley to swallow him up. It's dark but years on the street have given him an adaptation to the night that would make an owl jealous. He can see three – no, four – pairs of eyes staring back at him. Three of the sets belong to boys at least a foot taller than Race. But one of them, a beady set, narrowed and almost hidden from Racetrack's improved vision, is right at his height.

Mouse.

There is a snapping sound and Race is damn near blinded by the light. One of the boys shadowing Mouse has struck a match. He pulls a candle from only God knows where and touches its wick to the dancing flame. Once it is lit, he sets it behind Mouse, allowing the bookie to watch Race. The effect is startling, Mouse's small head forming a sort of silhouette against the candle. It gives him the appearance of having a halo.

Race would laugh at the irony of that if he was not scared shitless.

"Higgins," Mouse begins, and his eyes, if possible, become beadier. It is creepy and the candle ain't helping. "You know why you're here."

He does not say it as a question. It is a statement. And, yeah, Race knows.

"Hey, Mouse," he says, trying to let out a friendly chuckle. It does not come out as he intended. He sounds strangled and his voice is almost cracking. In a way, Race is glad that he had to come down to meet Mouse alone. At least none of the boys can see him transform into a dame before this little man. "How's it been?"

"Don't try to sound all smooth and shit, Higgins. You owe me money. I want it."

Race starts nodding, his head bobbing up and down like a rag doll. Somewhere, in the back of his head, he knows he looks ridiculous. But fear does that to a boy. "And you'll get it, Mouse. I just need some time—"

He saw Mouse lift his hand and, as if that hand was closing around his throat, Race's voice stops dead. The silence was creepier still.

Now, Mouse did not get his name because he is small. He did not get it because his eyes are beadier than any rodent in the rat-infested city. And he sure as hell did not get it because he was cute and furry.

No, Mouse is called Mouse because of his almost sick fascination with the animal itself. Race has heard talk that Mouse don't like humans half as much as he likes the vermin. Has an affinity with them, he has heard, and Race believes it. Mouse is a strange one, he knows. Makes sense that he likes mice better than people.

That's why he ain't surprised when Mouse holds out his hand expectantly to Benny. The biggest of the three goons, Benny, reaches one of his large, meaty hands into a paper bag that had been out of Race's line of vision. That is the first time that Race has seen that bag all night. Before that, his attention was on Mouse's perverse expression of enjoyment at his palpable fear.

_What is in that bag?_

Benny removes his hand and places something in Mouse's hand. Thanks to the candle, Race can see exactly what it is: a tiny brown mouse with a hairless pink tail as long as the rest of its body. It is squeaking like mad, trying to escape Mouse's thin fingers. But it does not bite him. Whether or not the creature knows what is coming, it does not bite Mouse. Maybe it is scared, too.

When the mouse finally calms down, Mouse opens his hand and runs his forefinger down the animal's back. The touch is slow and can almost be described as a caress. But the tenderness that the bookie shares with the animal does not extend to Racetrack. He glances up and Race can see that he is sneering.

The two of them lock eyes and Mouse nods. He does not say a word as he bends down and sets the mouse on the dirt. For a second, Race wonders how he can see this before he notices that Mouse's candle holder had lowered himself, too.

And, for some reason, that spooks Race even more.

Mouse has the tip of his boot on the mouse's tail, keeping the critter in place, as he rises. The candle remains at near ground level, illuminating the wide black eyes of the mouse. It begins squeaking again, squeaking in terror, and Race has the fleeting notion to push at Mouse's boots and set the thing free. But he does not. He can only watch.

As if he knows what to expect, Race starts swallowing so as not to get sick. It's a gag reflex he picked up from one too many nights out with a pint of cheap whiskey. He never thought that it would come in handy but, as he watches Mouse at work, he never appreciated his throat muscles more.

When Mouse quickly lifts his boot and brings it down upon the poor mouse before it can get free, the sickening crunch of hundreds of little bones shattering, Race is prepared. He does not throw up. But he wants to.

The goon with the candle rises and brings it back by Mouse's head. There is a hint of remorse lingering about his eyes but his face betrays no emotion. "I liked that mouse, Higgins. And I don't like you. Have my money here tomorrow by sunset, this exact spot, or else."

Racetrack Higgins does not need to know what Mouse's _or else _means. The splattered remains of a helpless mouse are enough of an answer for him.

--

**9:13 p.m.**

She is late and Skittery is getting, well, skittish.

Even on her latest evenings, the nights she followed him to a park or an alleyway to be with him before returning to her mother for the night, she never made it home past nine.

And he is worried.

_Where is she?_

But he does not move from his spot. Curfew at the lodging house does not come until eleven and, if he has to, he will wait below her apartment until then.

Hell, if she is still not here by eleven, he'll sleep there if he has to.

Skittery Daniels will wait for her forever if he has to.

--

**9:21 p.m.**

The walk to the whorehouse takes a lot less time than it normally does. Maybe it is because his feet have walked this path so often that they have found ways to make the trek more efficient. Or maybe it is because he does know that he should not be here and his continuing guilt made the trip seem much shorter.

Whatever the reason, Jack does not enter the building right away. What fun would it be for him or her if he just walks in, pays for an hour and can not last more than a minute? His nerves are shot and he can not help but think of Sarah.

The conjuring of Sarah's beautiful face is a mixed blessing for Jack. He feels the beginning of an erection, which will be of great help to him when he finally gets inside the place, but as hard as Sarah makes him, the idea that his whore is _not _Sarah makes him feel as limp as a wet noodle.

Add that to the insane feeling that he is being followed and it is no wonder that Jack remains outside the whorehouse, smoking cigarette and cigarette.

_One last time_, he tells himself as he lights another smoke. _One last time and I'll forget about this cheap fuck. I got Sarah. I don't need Lucy._

Jack tries to justify his being there but the justification never comes.

He just keeps promising himself one last time. If only that was not what he had said the time before this one.

He takes another drag off his cigarette, the smoke settling in his lungs as if it is fire instead of wisps of nothingness. He forces the heat out through his nose but, despite the pain, he breathes it in some more.

Call it punishment if you will.

Jack Kelly does.

--

**9:32 p.m.**

David waits across the street, his back to Jack as he pretends to be interested in the window display of the closed book store. If he had not already been able to tell that Jack is anxious, then that would have tipped him off. What sort of person stands outside of a closed book store at half past nine, attempting to read the cover of books that he could not make out in the dark?

But that was what David pretends to do. He does not openly stare at Jack, does not watch as he paces back and forth outside of a building as dark as that book store. He can see him, though, using the glass as a mirror. Cigarette after cigarette, the little red circle of a burning ember easy to pick out in the glass, Jack smokes and he walks. But he does not see. He does not notice that David is still watching him.

It does not stay like that much longer. Just when David is about to give up on his silly spying notions, Jack tosses his half-smoked cigarette to the ground. David, who is now facing him, but still across the street, watches as Jack brings his hand to his head, smoothes his already grease-slicked hair and approaches the door.

There is another second of indecision – will he go in or won't he? – but it does not last, either. Jack is soon swallowed up by the door and David is alone.

But not for long. David counts to three and crosses the street. He stops but once – he pauses to press his shoe against the still burning edge of Jack's last cigarette. With a quick push downward of his heel, the cigarette has been snuffed.

And David walks to the door. His heart is beating in anticipation of what he will find but, nevertheless, David Jacobs walks to the door.

--

**9:47 p.m.**

"Nine dollars and sixty-six cents… nine dollars and sixty-sevens cents… nine dollars and sixty-eight cents… nine dollars and sixty-nine cents… nine dollars and seventy cents."

Mush smiles to himself as he finishes counting up his money. The closer he gets to his ten dollar goal, the more he likes to check to make sure that he really will have that much money. That he really will have those new shoes to keep his feet warm come winter.

He hears a sound behind him and quickly adds the last bit of pennies to the great amount of coins that sit in the bottom compartment of his locker. He is lucky, this time, and has all of his money hidden away by the time those footsteps make it inside the small room.

Mush shuts the door to his locker and turns around to welcome whoever it was. "Evening, Race."

Race lifts his eyes from the floor and tries his best to give Mush one of his smart-alecky grins. Just because he is going to die tomorrow at sunset, it doesn't mean he has to be an ass to a good guy like Mush. "Mush. How was sellin'?"

Mush shrugs. "Can't complain."

Race opens his locker and wishes he could just crawl into to small, dark box. He has no complaints?

Well, isn't Mush Meyers the lucky one?


	4. August 15, 1899 10:00 pm

Author's Note: _To me, it's better to be safe than sorry. I'm glad that the idea of a poor mouse being squished to death by a sadistic bookie did not upset you but, shoot, it did to me. I like mice :) But, now that I know to what extent I can bring in the sin, I might try a little harder to upset you all. This chapter is a little tame, though. Only sexual innuendo ;) But, as it is Jack-related, it's much more entertaining – to me, at least. Woot! _

_I want to dedicate this chapter to the amazing _Brunette_. She is pimping this story in her own author's notes and I am so grateful for it. Now it's my turn. I want you to all go read _Glass Houses _(and her other stuff, too, of course). I am loving that story so far and she pushes the bounds way more than I could ever do :) And I love it! _

Disclaimer: _I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original characters shamelessly borrowed from _Newsies – _they are the property of Disney, © 1992. Any other character, when noted, is the property of this author._

_--_

Sin City

--

_Before Las Vegas, there was New York City...  
_One day in the life of five newsboys in 1899 Manhattan.

--

_I can only express puzzlement, that borders on alarm. _

--

**10:00 p.m. **

David Jacobs is a coward.

He checks the watch he keeps stowed in his pocket and is amazed to see that almost a half an hour has past since he crossed the street and found himself before this dark building. But, even after those thirty minutes, he still is standing before the building, too scared to enter. He does not know what he will find when he pulls on that door handle so he leaves the handle alone.

And he waits outside, a grimy, grungy great door separating him from learning the truth about Jack Kelly. Or Francis Sullivan. Or Cowboy. Or whatever the hell that kid feels like his name is. It changes so frequently. How could anyone be expected to keep track?

David sighs and, for the countless time in those last eighteen hundred seconds, he reaches for the handle but, unlike every other time before it, his flesh makes contact with the brass. The cold bite of the metal surprises even him – he had not expected to ever actually _touch _the door handle – and, before his inherent hesitance stops him, David opens the door.

The room he finds himself in is dark and smoky and he tries hard not to cough as his virgin lungs are assaulted. He fails as his breath catches in his throat and he hacks loudly. For a brief minute, he is unable to breathe and he wants nothing more than to forget this stupid idea of trailing Jack. He gropes blindly behind him, searching out the door handle but does not find it.

Someone else finds him first.

"Hey there, honey. Looking for a good time?"

The coughs stop, but so does his breathing. Whatever he thinks it is that this building houses, it is not that.

He waves his hands frantically before his eyes, clearing away enough smoke so that he can make out the woman standing before him. She is behind a counter – a parody of a regular shop clerk, he notices – but is leaning forward, presenting David with a full view of her chest.

David moves his eyes, and remembers that air is necessary to be alive. He takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"

She laughs, a low purr that excites him and causes him to, ironically, think of his Mother at the same time. Just what would Esther Jacobs say if she knew her older boy was in the company of a prostitute? That he was standing in a whorehouse?

What would Sarah say if she knew that was where he had followed Jack to?

"Oh, a real polite one, are we?" She laughs. "I like that, sugar. How can I do ya?" Her eyes, much more accustomed to the seediness of the establishment, could see that David is flinching. "Let me guess. Your first time in a place like this? Here, let me make you more comfortable." 

She reaches forward and, despite his better intentions not to face this woman, he gets a better look at her face. She is a lot older than David and she wears her mousy brown hair done up in curls, but curls that were limp and falling out of their shape. She has on so much make-up that he does not know where the woman ends and the whore begins. It's frightening.

Before entering this hidden room – this dark, dank and filthy room, perfectly suited for it's sinful behaviors – the only woman that David had ever thought of as being enticing was Medda Larkson, the vaudeville performer friend of Jack's. But, while David thinks of Medda as the woman he could want but never attain (for many reasons), this woman just screams _loose_ to him. She intimidates him even more so as her thick fingers reach to him and he steps back.

"N-no, no th-thank you." He is stuttering but he can't help it. He puts up his hand, trying to block her advances. "Wrong d-door."

This was not what he had been expecting when he followed Jack.

He can tell that this woman is not the sort who takes no for an answer. She is already sidling around the counter, making her way towards him.

David Jacobs is a coward.

Before she can get to his side, he is gone, hurrying out the front door of the brothel and back onto the New York City street.

--

**10:11 p.m. **

Skittery Daniels is alone.

The silence is beginning to stifle him.

But it is not that silent. He is waiting outside of a tenement building and, despite the lateness of the hour, he could hear much of the tenant's goings on through open windows and thin walls.

In the apartment two stories above where he stood, a mother was yelling for her children to go to sleep. In one even higher up, there is the sound of two men having a conversation while resting on the fire escape. He glances up and one of the two catches him watching them. Skittery lowers his head and nervously jams his hands underneath his brown suspenders.

He's still listening, though.

_Where the hell is Faye?_

In another apartment, he can make out a loud argument between a man and a woman. He hears the fierce sound of flesh being slapped with full force, and crying, but he lowers his head and tries to ignore it. It reminds him too much of his own home, his long ago childhood.

So, instead, he strains his ears for the sound of Faye's quick footsteps toward the building. She has to be coming soon. She could not possibly take any longer, could not possibly keep him waiting any longer.

Could she?

There is a cigarette hanging off of his bottom lip but it is not lit. Faye hates it when he smokes and, as time continues to flow and he repeatedly insists that she will be approaching the apartment soon, he does not want her to come across him smoking like a chimney. She is upset enough with him, he knows. He does not want to upset her any more.

He sits down, absently sucking on the cigarette, letting some of the loose shag settle on his tongue. He chews it a few times – he had been in too much of a hurry to see Faye that he had forsaken his supper; he is hungry even if he is too stubborn to admit it – before spitting it out and wiping his mouth with the back of his dirty hand.

It had been a long day, and is proving longer. His feet, sore from selling that morning and afternoon, feel better once his weight is settled against the cement stoop. He leans up against the railing, waiting.

Skittery Daniels is alone.

And he will stay there, waiting for her until he is no longer that way.

**-- **

**10:24 p.m. **

Jack Kelly is exhausted.

He is tired, all of his energy having been spent by pumping into the girl lying beside him. He is craving a cigarette, and pissed that his nerves earlier that night led him to smoke every last one he had shoved in his trouser pockets.

The sex did not last as long as he would have liked. When every penny is everything, a boy learns to get as much out of the penny that he can. If he is paying good, hard-earned money to sleep with a whore, then he wants it to last as long as possible. But Jack, his thoughts betraying him by refusing to see the redheaded Lucy as Lucy but, instead, as his virginal Sarah, can not sustain his erection and it is nearly over before it begins.

After all the times that he has come to her and lain with her, Lucy, the young prostitute, has taken quite a fancy to him and only charges him a quarter of her going rate. Jack knows that somewhere inside her, she believes that he is the man who will rescue her from a life of riding the sheets. That behind his guarded brown eyes and charmingly spun tales, there lies a man who loves her as a person and not just a pair of easily spread legs.

Lucy does not know Jack Kelly the way she thinks she does.

_Not many people do. _

There is a sour taste in his mouth and whether it is from the unsatisfying sex or the taste of Lucy's sloppy kisses, he does not know. He is disgusted with himself, his body and his uncontrollable lust. His mind tells him that he should not be there but his body wants nothing more than to remain in Lucy's bed, her slender legs intertwining with his muscular ones.

Her legs are smooth when he knows that her hands are rough. She is as synonymous to the streets as he is. Vaguely, he wonders if that is what keeps him returning to this place – this girl. Sarah is a dream to him. Lucy is his reality. He will never get better than some cheap trick. Why should he even try?

Jack sighs, trying his best to push the image of Sarah Jacobs from his mind. After all, as the reality of who he is and what he will ever be – Jack becomes almost philosophical, if not more of a realist, after climax – settles over him he knows that it is only just a matter of time before Sarah sees him for who he is and he is left alone.

Maybe that is why he continues to find (paid) shelter in Lucy's embrace.

He turns his head to his right and spies the old clock in the corner of Lucy's room. When the girl at the front signed him in and he paid, he had paid for an hour's use of Lucy. That was at a quarter to ten. He still has near twenty minutes left but he does not feel up to using them. He thinks it would just be better to slide out of the wet sheets and pull his trousers back on. Curfew is quickly approaching and he wants to make it back to the lodging house before Kloppman locks the doors for the night.

Jack Kelly is exhausted. He does not think he can even move again if he wanted to. Let alone get it up so that he can take advantage of the time left.

Of course, that is before Lucy snuggles closer to him and slowly begins to move her hand downward.

And, despite the better protests of his consciousness, his libido takes over and he loses himself in the pleasure he finds in Lucy's experienced touch.

**-- **

**10:41 p.m. **

Racetrack Higgins is thinking.

Rather than follow Mush's example and turning in for the night before Kloppman calls _lights out_, Race takes the half-smoked butt of his cigar out of his vest, a box of matches from his locker, and heads back outside. He exits through the back door of the house, yelling over his shoulder to the old supervisor that he'd be back before curfew.

He did not go far one he made it out the door. He sat down at the edge of the road, his back resting against the streetlight just outside the back door. It's not too bad and, besides, the light shining down on him does it's best to alleviate the air of dread that has settled upon him following his meeting with the bookie.

He lights the cigar using one of his matches. While he puffs away on his cigar, he does not extinguish the match. Race lets it burn until it is licking at his thumb and forefinger. Only then does he drop it, letting the dirt on the ground snuff out the flame.

The shadow of Mouse McGuire's malevolence hung about him and he could not shake it off. He continually swivels his head to check behind him, only to chastise himself when there is nothing there behind him but darkness.

He takes another drag off the foul cigar, relishing the bitter taste. The sensation, one he normally uses to energize him, has a calming effect. It reminds him that he is alive. For now.

In a way, Race feels like that poor mouse. Ripped out of the comfortable environment that it knew and tossed inside a bag of uncertainty. The night is Race's time of uncertainty, the dark is his place. Just like that mouse, squeaking and squirming in the paper bag, Mouse McGuire now holds his life in his hands. If he so wishes it, Mouse can crush the life out of Race like he did with that poor creature.

At least he has the opportunity to save his life. It would only take seven dollars.

And he knows someone with seven dollars. _Everyone_ in the lodging house knows someone with seven dollars.

Racetrack Higgins is thinking.

He is thinking about death. He is thinking about life. He is thinking about honor. He is thinking about betrayal.

He is thinking about stealing Mush Meyer's money. 

--

**10:57 p.m. **

Mush Meyers is asleep.

With three minutes left to curfew, he, unlike many of his counterparts, has nothing more pressing on his mind than whether or not tomorrow's headline will earn him enough to buy those fancy shoes of his a little sooner. So he sleeps on, a smile curling his chapped lips, his worn blanket barely covering his bare chest.

Poor Mush.

If only he knew what lay in store for him, he would not have been sleeping so soundly.


	5. August 15, 1899 11:00 pm

Author's Note: _Well, here's the next chapter. Nothing really important going on but we _do _finally get to meet Faye (sort of). Also, the next few chapters will either be really short or combined into one normal sized chapter because, quite honestly, there's not much I can do during the few sleeping hours these boys have. Woot._

Disclaimer: _I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original characters shamelessly borrowed from Newsies – they are the property of Disney, © 1992. Any other character, when noted, is the property of this author._

--

Sin City

--

_Before Las Vegas, there was New York City...  
__One day in the life of five newsboys in 1899 Manhattan._

--

_She shivers in the wind like the last leaf on a dying tree.  
__I let her hear my footsteps.  
__She only goes stiff for a moment._

**--**

**10:59 p.m.**

"Race?"

The gruff and low voice broke over Racetrack, shattering his contemplative aura like a fallen mirror, scattered shards and a crushed illusion. He jerks his head up, only then noticing that the end of his cigar has dwindled down to mere ash.

Race tosses the butt carelessly to the ground before inclining his ear towards the back door. "Yeah, Kloppman?"

"Curfew, my boy. Time to turn in before I lock up the lodging house."

He nods though he is far from ready to fall asleep. Race knows that, if he is so lucky that sleep does not elude him altogether, there is nothing but nightmares in store for him. And, besides, does he really want to waste his last few hours – unless he does the unthinkable and actually robs good ol' Mush – in misery?

"Give me a minute. I'll be in before you know it. I'm, uh, just getting some night air. For my cough." He hacks a pitiful cough, trying to lend credence to his excuse. It's not as if all those cigars of his has not already led to a nasty cough.

Kloppman does not answer right away but, right before Race is about to give up and just go inside, he says, "I'll go check up on the others and tell them its lights out. Just be inside by then, Race."

_Kloppman's a real good guy. I wonder… nah. I couldn't even ask him about that. _

Race, though he is still sitting with his legs drawn up to his chest, stamps the sole of his shoes against the dust in annoyance, sending a cloud up towards his face.

He does not expect the assault on his nose and eyes and, much like the lie he told to Kloppman, he begins to cough.

"Hey Race? You doing alright, pal?"

Race can not see, his fists in his eyes, trying to knock the dirt out, but he recognizes the voice. As much history as he shares with this boy, Jack Kelly definitely is not the sort of person you want to find you, blind and nervous.

--

**11:01 p.m. **

"Jack?"

"Yeah, Race. It's me. What are you doing down there?"

Jack is standing there, his hands in his pockets, as he waits for Race to drop his hands and rise up in greeting. He can not imagine what the short boy is doing on the ground as it is but, at least, he has a pretty good idea as to why he is temporarily blinded. Just as he made it to the backdoor – with the intent to slip in, in case he gets there after curfew – he saw Race stamp at the dry dirt. Very stupid.

That does not tell Jack why Race would do something so dumb. He knows the boy, knows the boy probably better (and longer) than most of the others, and, if Racetrack Higgins is outside, beating up the dust, only two things can be the cause: girls or gambling (or both, knowing Race).

But, for the most part, Jack is betting that it is gambling.

_Damn. What the hell did Race do this time? _

Race finally lowers his hands and tries to greet his friend with a typical Race smirk. "Jack. Getting here a bit late, aren't you?"

Jack does not miss the fact that Race has purposely ignored his question but his own guilt about his prior destination keeps him from pointing that out. Instead, he tenses and (not for the first time that night) wishes he had a cigarette. "I could say the same. It's gotta be curfew soon, right? And you're outside in the dirt."

Race shrugs and climbs to his feet. "I was just thinking."

Jack snorts, glad to have something to take his mind off of his own problems. Racetrack… thinking. Now, that is something worth questioning. "About what?"

"Nothing much. It's just a nice night, that's all. How's about you? Been with Davey's sister all this time?" he asks as he leans in and elbows Jack in his side. "I can smell woman all over you, buddy. You get laid, finally?" He chuckles. "Didn't think Sarah had it in her – except for you, now."

Jack's face drops and, for the first time since meeting Mouse, Racetrack feels a bit better about his own situation.

"Oh. I, uh… yeah," Race says. "Nice one, Cowboy."

Well, not quite. Jack still got to be with a woman, even if it's not Sarah. And Race? Well, Race still has to find seven dollars.

Mush's money is looking all the more appealing – even if he has to steal it – as every minute passes.

"Come on, Race. Let's go inside," Jack said shortly, evading Race's question entirely. It is neither a topic he wants to discuss nor one that he wants to dwell on any further. "We wouldn't want Kloppman to lock us out."

Jack just wants to go to sleep and forget that his own weaknesses led him to, once again, be unfaithful to Sarah. Even if Race is able to pick up on his indiscretions, that does not mean that anyone else knows.

So, there is one positive to his actions, one that Jack continues to repeat himself as he cools from the warmth of Lucy's touch: _Sarah has no idea… no idea… _

--

**11:25 p.m. **

"David?"

David wonders how long Sarah has been awake. Is it possible that she has been up for as long as he has been home? If so, then it would be pointless to clamp his eyes shut and pretend to be asleep. She would know that he is faking.

But, did he really want to face her?

No.

David pretends to snore and roll over in his sleep so that his back is presented to her.

Sarah is not fooled. He can hear her as she shuffles closer to his bed before reaching out and poking him in the back. "David? Come on, David. I know that you are awake," she whispers, careful not to wake Les up.

He yawns and makes a big production of being stolen from his sleep. He stretches his arms and rolls back over as he opens his eyes. Though he knows that Sarah is waiting for him at his beside, the sight of her face directly looking into his spooks him and he jumps.

He almost screams but Sarah is expecting his surprise. She clamps her small, dainty hand over his mouth. Her big brown eyes are pleading with him and David feels guilty. She is already so concerned about what is going on with Jack that, he knows, if he tells her the truth, it would hurt her even more.

When she sees that he is awake (and not so frightened), she removes her hand from his mouth and begins to wring both of her hands together.

"Sarah? Huh? I was… I was sleeping. What's wrong?"

"David…" She is still whispering but David can hear that her voice is strained. "Did you… did you _find _anything out?"

_Of course. She knows that I promised to find out what Jack has been up to… but I can't tell her. What do I do? _

It is very hard for David to even think about lying to Sarah with her sorrowful expression staring down upon him. But, regardless, that is exactly what he proceeds to do.

"No, Sarah. I tried but there was nothing to see tonight." He tries to sound remorseful for his lack of information. It is not hard – he is extremely remorseful for lying to his only sister. But it is for her sake, not Jack's; how can he tell her that the boy she thinks she is in love with is spending his time in a brothel?

"Maybe tomorrow, Sarah."

--

**11:36 p.m. **

"Mush?"

Race is leaning over Mush's bunk. It is difficult, since Mush always claims a top bunk and Race is definitely on the shorter side, but when there is a will, there is a way. He had climbed up on the side of Snipeshooter's bunk, careful not to step on the boy, as he pulled himself up to face Mush.

The olive-skinned boy is sleeping on his back, a smile on his face. The blanket is only covering part of his torso and Race can see that Mush is sleeping in the bottom portion of his union suit. But that is not all – from his position, at the bottom half of the bunk, Race can see the soles of Mush's feet… and the blisters that covers them.

The sight, not unknown to Race, made the reality of what he was doing all the more _real._ His plan to ask Mush for the money fails before it even begins.

He could not ask Mush for it. From what he can see, Mush needs it almost as much as he does. Everyone knows that Mush has been saving his money for a new pair of shoes (even if he believes that his secret has been well kept). He does not want to make Mush decide between serving his own needs and that of a friend.

However, that does not mean that Race is not going to get the money.

He is just not going to _ask _for it.

Race climbs down from the bunk without ever waking Mush up from his sleep.

--

**11:53 p.m. **

"Skittery?"

Skittery is sleeping, his head propped up against the railing. The sleep is not deep, though, and he is awake almost before the last syllable of his name is uttered. But it is not his name that catches his consciousness – it is the voice.

_Faye. _

He rubs his eyes frantically, trying to rid them of the dirt and grime that found its way there as he slept. Skittery is not a stranger to sleeping on the streets – when the headlines are poor, it is usually the only option – and he is well aware of how one appears after getting up.

Once he is done, he opens his eyes and stands up from the cement stoop. Skittery peers into the dark of night, looking for the source of her sweet voice, but he sees nothing.

"Skittery? What are you doing here?"

She speaks again and he is able to tell where she is. She is standing above him. Somehow, without him knowing it, Faye has gotten past him and is in her apartment.

He moves away from the stoop until he is far enough back so that he can see her room from the street. Even if he did not know which of the windows belonged to the Willows family, he would find her – she is the only person standing on the fire escape.

Her long light brown hair is, for once, unclipped and flowing free. He can not make out her expression, since he is so far below her, but her face is leaning downward in his direction. How she knows that it is him is beyond Skittery. But he does not think about that just then.

Faye is finally there.

"Faye?"

"Skittery Daniels! I thought I told you that I never wanted to see you again," she calls down, her voice much lower than normal. She is keeping quiet purposely, he realizes. She must not want to alert anyone to their conversation.

He understands this and beckons her downward with his hands. "Faye, I… we… have to talk. Why don't you come on down?"

She is quiet for a moment before shaking her head. Skittery sees the strands of her hair moving with the motion. Entranced by the sight, made all the more poignant by the moon lit up above them both, Skittery focuses more on Faye than what she is saying.

It is only when she stops moving her head and climbs (carefully, he notices, much more care than any other time he's seen) back inside her mother's apartment, that Skittery's attention is restored.

But, by then, it is too late. Faye is gone and, though he resumes his place on the cement stoop, Skittery doubts that she is coming down to see him.


	6. August 16, 1899 12:00 am

Author's Note: _Yeah, let's pretend that it hasn't been three weeks since I updated. I blame it on graduating from college and celebrating the holidays. But, as both are now done, I should have more time to update my stories. Yay. Unfortunately, this chapter is uber short (I decided to continue the hour by hour chapters), as will the next five chapters. But at least that means quicker updates. Woot._

Disclaimer: _I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original characters shamelessly borrowed from Newsies – they are the property of Disney, © 1992. Any other character, when noted, is the property of this author._

--

Sin City

--

_Before Las Vegas, there was New York City...  
__One day in the life of five newsboys in 1899 Manhattan._

--

_Dozens of them. Armed to the teeth. I'm outnumbered. Outgunned.  
But the alley is crooked, dark, and very narrow. They can't surround me.  
Sometimes you can beat the odds with a careful choice of where to fight. _

--

**12:00 am **

It's midnight. Somewhere, a clock rings twelve times and the day before makes way for what is to come. It is still dark, it is still unassuming. It is still quiet. But, as the 16th of August, of 1899, ushers in over the city, the night is no longer uneventful.

Midnight. It is the bewitching hour. The moment in time when anything can happen – and usually does. Full of chaos and despair, discord and turmoil, it is the beacon of the next day's activities and downfalls. And, as the five newsboys of this tale, retire into their bitter existence and the day prior fades into oblivion, it is a warning.

They sleep but they do not sleep heavily. For each of them, it is a faux rest, riddled with unpleasant dreams and nighttime tremors.

There's David Jacobs. Thoughts of betrayal and remorse whirling through his head as he unconsciously kneads a clenched fist through his pillow. He is asleep but, even asleep, David is worrying. What about Sarah? She is enamored with that scoundrel. What about Les? He sees Jack as a hero.

Some hero. As soon as his family's back is turned, Jack enters a brothel and dons sin, sloughing off the respect the Jacobs's so freely placed upon his shoulders. And the only one who knows – the only one who can enlighten his family to Jack's offenses – is David. For that, he can not sleep.

And there's Jack Kelly. He sleeps in his reserved top bunk, his eyes closed, his chest heaving. His sleep is deep but, regardless, he feels her heavy touch on his arms… on his chest… on his groin. Jack tries to push the phantom prostitute away as he rolls over in his sleep. The pressure of his sleep-based erection against the rough mattress draws a moan from the boy but he does not wake.

And Skittery Daniels. When Faye failed to come down to him, he leaned back up against the railing. He was asleep – lightly, as if he still expected the girl to see reason and meet with him – almost at once. It is long hours, selling newspapers in the summertime, and it has been close to eighteen hours since he's been up and about. He told himself, _just a minute_, but the minute stretched and he's snuffling lightly as he rests.

His dreams all feature Faye. That's no surprise. But they are nightmares: Faye repeatedly casting him aside for a variety of ludicrous – at least, to Skittery's mind – reasons. He is mumbling her name, quietly and under his breath, as he continues to sleep.

Racetrack Higgins. His rest is the most ill at ease. Between visions of a large boot coming down upon his lying form, and the sound of heartbreaking sobs coming from a boy whose very dreams were stolen by one he termed friend, Race does not sleep well.

But he does sleep. It is a half-sleep, a mixture of murmurs and fruitless tossing that leads him to place his small pillow over his head. As if he is hiding himself from the world. As if his troubles would never think to look beneath a diminutive bit of cloth and stuffing.

And good ol' Mush Meyers. Of the others, his dreams are the simplest. A happy and good boy by nature, there are no demons that haunt his sleeping hours, no hidden vices that threaten to overtake him. If anything, he is chilled; his meager blanket shifted as he slept, and his chest is bare. As the clock rings, he wakes momentarily, readjusts his covers, smiles into the darkness, and closes his eyes.

--

They say that there are those who thrive on chaos and despair. But not these boys.

These five newsboys do not have a choice. They are thrust into such a state, becoming the very embodiment of CHAOS. Of DESPAIR. And they do not have a choice. Their meager life, their humble beginnings, their very _struggle_ to survive to see that next day, is not their choice.

But, as that clock, somewhere, anywhere, _everywhere_, strikes midnight, not a one of those boys are thinking of their stations. They are sleeping – restlessly, admittedly – and, as they sleep, they are stolen away from the reality of the city.

Sin City.

_Until tomorrow_.


	7. August 16, 1899 1:00 am

Author's Note: _Woot, new chapter. I told you that I wanted to crank them out (since they are short chapters). The next four chapters will follow this same sort of format – one hour, one character. In a way, it's a bit of trying to understand where each one of them is at before the next day starts. Yay. I hope you guys like it (and, yes, I am on a roll with updating my Newsies stories. Thank you for noticing :P)_

Disclaimer: _I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original characters shamelessly borrowed from Newsies – they are the property of Disney, © 1992. Any other character, when noted, is the property of this author._

--

Sin City

--

_Before Las Vegas, there was New York City...  
__One day in the life of five newsboys in 1899 Manhattan._

--

_Power don't_ _come from a badge, or a gun. Power comes from lying._  
_Lying big and getting the whole damn world to play along with you._  
_Once you got everybody agreeing with what they know in their hearts ain't true, __you got them by the balls._

--

**1:23 am**

The nighttime seems to last forever. There are perverted dreams plaguing the sanctuary of his mind and, when he can no longer run from the visions, he wakes up. Aching in his nether regions, his face buried in a pillow that reeks of body odor, smoke and sweat, Jack wakes up.

His mouth is partly open, his tongue lolling against the damp material. A pool of drool has formed just under his chin; it is the first bath he has had in two days. But, now, with the smell of sex covering his body, he knows he will have to rise all the earlier tomorrow and spend a good deal of time at the water pump before he is ready to face David and Les.

Jack groans and flops onto his back. The top bunk creaks and he wonders if, this time maybe, the old wood won't hold and he'll fall. But it stays and he promises himself that he'll move to a lower bunk soon. He's getting too big for the top one.

Hell, he's getting too big for the lodging house.

He's already seen seventeen summers. Come winter and he'll be eighteen, damn it. At his age, he should be preparing to find a good girl, marry her, settle down, have a few kids. But what's he doing? Sleeping around with whores and trying to make a living telling lies.

If there is one thing that Jack Kelly is, he's a liar. And a good one at that. He can spin a tale at the drop of the hat and have everyone believing it.

Why? Because Jack Kelly himself is a lie. He is nothing more than the wishes and the hopes of a nothing boy who, by changing his name, thinks he can rise above a life in the slums of the Lower East Side. He is nothing, but he tells himself otherwise.

Above them all, the one who believes Jack Kelly's lies more than most is… Jack Kelly.

The boy sighs and, almost glad that his consciousness reveals that he is alone in his bunk rather than curled up besides Lucy, he sits up on his elbows. Every since he started to see Sarah Jacobs, the dreams had been there. He thinks of them as punishment. He's not repentant during the day, nor when he's lying with Lucy. But, when he's alone and his conscience has the time to work him over, he feels bad.

He doesn't want to go back to sleep. If he does, then Lucy's heavy touch will be waiting for him. He knows this. The whore is always waiting for him. In his life, in his dreams, Lucy is there.

Maybe that's why he can't stop seeing her. Because, whether he wants to or not, she'll find him. And she'll expose him as the no-good cheat that he is.

Jack folds his hands behind his head as he lays back down but he does not close his eyes. It's rare for him not to sleep through the night – especially after spending an evening with Lucy – but when the dreams allow him a break from their guilt-inducing images, he takes it.

And he thinks.

It's only been a month – not even a month, really, couple of days shy – since this uncharacteristic guilt began. Ever since that strike… ever since he met Sarah.

_Sarah…_

He knew that she was the one right away. She was handsome: fair skin, long brown hair, good size bosom. She seemed shy to him but, almost at once, he could read her – it was all an act. Sarah was not shy. She was playing the part of perfect daughter. With her very gaze, she held a hint of promise that Jack could not disregard.

She made him weak, that much was certain. Sarah held a certain amount of power over his head. With one look, she could bring him under her control… make him experience things he had never known. Like respect. Remorse. Guilt. Love.

And when she kissed him…

Jack Kelly is not shy, himself. He has been around, much more than he will ever admit to any of the other boys. He sleeps in whatever bed is available to him. It's been instilled in him since the day his Ma died and his Pa took the rap for it – you do what you got to do to survive, simple as that.

You want food in your belly? Steal a loaf of bread.

You need shelter? Sneak into an apartment.

You feel desire? Proposition a whore.

You need to survive? Lie.

Simple as that.

He thought it was simple, too. He kept to himself, made pals, broke hearts… did what he had to do. Got caught only once – damn Snyder – but no place can hold him. Jack Kelly does not stay where he does not want to.

Then why the hell is he still in New York?

It all comes back to Sarah. He had to chance of a lifetime – the chance to get out of this hellhole for once and for all – and he gave it all up… for her. He lied to himself, said he loved her and went back to the City.

Jack Kelly is a liar. And a good one at that.

He still believes he loves Sarah. With Lucy's scratch marks running down the side of his backs, with Lucy's stink covering his body, with Lucy's taste still in his mouth… he is still lying to himself.

But that's alright. It would not be the first lie Francis Sullivan has lived.


	8. August 16, 1899 2:00 am

Author's Note: _Next chapter. I don't know what it is about this one character, but I always have a hard time with him. Maybe it's because it's hard for me to imagine him in love, but… yeah. Anywho, here it is. A little bit longer than the last one, so that's good. Enjoy :)_

Disclaimer: _I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original characters shamelessly borrowed from Newsies – they are the property of Disney, © 1992. Any other character, when noted, is the property of this author._

--

Sin City

--

_Before Las Vegas, there was New York City...  
__One day in the life of five newsboys in 1899 Manhattan._

--

_I tell her that everything will be alright.  
__That I'll save her from whatever she's scared of and take her far far away.  
__I tell her... I love her..._

--

**2:37 am**

"Faye." He's mumbling in his sleep, her name sounding suspiciously like a mix between a snore and a groan. A cloud of dirt, lifted by a brisk eddy of wind, assaults his nose and Skittery coughs. The action jerks his body and his head slips off of its resting pole. He wakes up just before his head falls forward enough to hit the ground.

His preservation instincts kick in and he hurriedly yanks his whole body back. "I didn't do it," he says automatically, his head still full of fuzzy dreams and hazy nightmares. It's only when he opens his dark eyes wide and remembers exactly where he is – and what he is doing there – that he relaxes. The calmness does not last, though. He remembers Faye and her refusal to meet with him and he curses under his breath.

Skittery rubs his head, pushing his brown hair out of his face. For a moment, he wonders where the hell his hat has gone. He had forgotten that he had been in such a rush to find Faye that evening that he left his old cap sitting at the foot of his bunk. His nose wrinkles in annoyance – and not just from the dust that has settled there; between the sticky fingers of Racetrack and Snipeshooter, he'd be lucky if his hat is still there when he gets back to the lodging house.

Temporarily mourning the almost certain loss of his favorite hat, he stands up. His back is sore from sitting up against the railing for the past few hours; he tries to stretch his muscles to relieve the pain. It doesn't work. He is no stranger to living out on the streets but the lodging house has spoiled him. He has not had to sleep outside for quite a bit of time; his back is crying out for the comfort of his bunk.

Skittery decides to just ignore the pain – it's nothing new, really – and takes a few steps into the street. He wishes like hell that he could have a cigarette but a quick look see into his pockets tells him that he has exhausted his limited supply. He shakes his head. _Figures._

The night is clear, he sees. The moon is yellow. Skittery scowls at the damn light. He feels like it is focused on him solely, illuminating his troubles.

Life has never been good for Skittery Daniels. But then there was Faye, his own personal savior. She is everything he thought he'd never get. And it's not that he is glum and dumb about his station in life – he is a realist. Before he met her, he knew damn well that he belonged to the streets – that he could never belong to a woman.

Faye has made him think that he could be more than he is.

She helped him to open up a bit and, before long, Skittery – the resident pessimist that he is – had fallen in love. And it was not just to get inside her knickers (though that didn't hurt, of course).

He really should have known better. It has been a good month since he met Faye. The whole courting thing has never sat well with him – for her to put up with him for a solid month, that's something. He should have been expecting it when she told him in no uncertain terms that she never wanted to see him again.

Normally, Skittery would have let it lie. Shoved his dirty hands into his trouser pockets and walked away from her. But not this time.

It was a toss between wanting to know _why _she was ditching him and convincing her to give him another shot. Though the words have never crossed his lips, Skittery Daniels loves Faye Willow. He had thought he would have enough time to find the words to tell her so, but he never did.

She still doesn't know.

Skittery continues to look upward, cursing at the moon. What he wouldn't have given for it to be a cloudy night… You know, something to fit his foul mood.

But that's when, out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of Faye's apartment. And he gets an idea.

Before he could think about what he is doing – or how pointless it is – Skittery starts to climb upwards, using the fire escape as his ladder. The stairs are rusted but he knows to trust them with his weight.

This is not the first time that he has climbed these steps.

It doesn't take long for him to reach the window that he knows belongs to Adelaide Willow's eldest child. Whether Faye has always slept in the bed beside the window, he does not know – he has never asked – but, ever since the first time he climbed up the fire escape, when he gets to that window, he sees Faye.

Skittery wonders what the hell took him this long to go up to see her. Maybe it is because he fears the wrath of Faye's mother or maybe it is because he is afraid to hear Faye send him away again. Either way, it's only now, when he's barely coherent, that he decides to visit her.

She's sleeping but he does not intend to disturb her. He just wants to watch over her. Be in her presence, even if she has no idea.

This is not the first time that he's watched her as she slept, either.

It gives him a sense of peace, seeing her there, vulnerable. Knowing that he could protect her and would… if she only let him.

The window pane separates the two of them. His hands are pressed up against the glass, his forehead gently leaning against it. He wants to be inside that room – be inside with Faye – but he knows better than to let his emotions handle this situation. It is those damn emotions that are enticing him to stare at her as she sleeps peacefully not more than a foot away from him. There is no light but that of the moon but, despite the darkness, Skittery can see her every feature before him.

Her eyes, hidden away as she slumbers peacefully, are a hazel color – a mixture of browns, greens and yellows. While not unusual in any way, it is those eyes that have the power to break Skittery out of any bad mood he might be in.

It's a pity that she's sleeping, Skittery muses. He's been in one hell of a mood ever since Faye told him to forget about her.

But, then again, if she awoke, he doubts she will appreciate him lurking just outside of her window. It's probably better this way.

He sighs and continues to peer into the dark apartment. Her face is turned away from him – as if she knows he is out there – and all he can make out is her hair.

Her hair is a golden shade with just a hint of a curl. While she normally keeps it out of her face with a plain handkerchief, Skittery always used to enjoy untying the knot of the cloth and watching as the long hair fell down her shoulders.

He wants to run his fingers through her hair. No matter how ink-stained or dirt-covered those digits were, Faye would let him caress the strands. Said she liked the gentle touch of his hand.

He does not, of course. There is still the glass window separating him from her. And, she would not have left it open for him… would she?

As slowly as he can – nonchalantly, too, so he doesn't get his hopes up – Skittery tries to lift it open. No luck. Faye has locked it. He should have been expecting it.

Skittery sighs.

There's nothing left to be done, for now. Well, except for one thing…

"Love you, Faye," he whispers to the darkness.

And then he starts the slow descent back to the ground.


	9. August 16, 1899 3:00 am

Author's Note: _Well, now that the fan fiction awards are over and done with, I should have some more time to continue working on my stories. First up… Sin City (which tied for Best Drama, woot). I hope you guys like this chapter. Two more to go of the shorter ones, yay._

Disclaimer: _I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original characters shamelessly borrowed from Newsies – they are the property of Disney, © 1992. Any other character, when noted, is the property of this author._

--

Sin City

--

_Before Las Vegas, there was New York City...  
__One day in the life of five newsboys in 1899 Manhattan._

--  
_  
That tells you something about your state of mind, don't it? __It's got you hearing things.  
It's got your nerves shot… It's got you smoking._ _You know it's true…  
Nobody ever really quits._  
_A smoker's a smoker when the chips are down…_

--

**3:14 am**

Racetrack is dreaming but it ain't a pleasant dream. In fact, it's more like a nightmare. A crazy nightmare that frightens him even more so because it's only a hint of what could be.

_In his dream, Race is running but it's not the way he normally runs. He's not on two feet, arms pumping at his side but, instead, he's going forward on all fours. The sound of his hands and feet as the scurry on annoys him; it's almost as if they are clicking against the cobblestone floor and, with each space taken, his head echoes with the noise._

_There's someone running behind him. There's something running behind him, too. He doesn't have the desire to see what it is – he knows only to run – but, when the something hits him in the side, he slides his eyes over. _

_It takes a second for him to process the sight he is seeing. It's a tail – a real, goddamn tail – that just smacked him… a tail that is stuck to him. It's Racetrack's tail._

_He stumbles over himself in his surprise, tripping over a foot that looks nothing like it's supposed to. He falls and slides a few feet forward, his earlier momentum propelling him onward. He slams into a box that's gotta be at least eight feet high – or, at least, it seems that way to Race. There's a frightened squeak and he wonders for a second where it came from before he realizes that it came from him._

_Him…_

_There's a wicked laugh looming somewhere above him. Race only has enough time to look up and see a gigantic boot that is crashing down upon him before he knows only darkness…_

Race wakes up, a slick sheen of sweat coating his forehead. The fear is so palpable that he can taste it – it reminds him of spoiled milk or rotten eggs… maybe even an unholy mixture of the two. It disturbs him and he feels violently ill but he does not move. Or, he does, but only to remove the sweat-soaked pillow from his face. Despite his earlier precaution, the nightmares found him.

His heart is beating so rapidly that he imagines it beating out a rhythm. It is a gay tune, he believes, and, as he listens to it, he can almost see Medda Larkson belting out a song to it's melody as she tapped her heeled shoes along to the beat. But, then, reality sits in and Medda's beautiful face is replaced by Mouse McGuire's. The tapping grows frantic – it is stomping. Stomp… stomp… stomp… just like that heavy boot.

Nothing can take his mind off of Mouse's threat – if only because Race is well aware that it's no mere threat. It is a promise. And, at that moment, as he stares up at the bunk above him – seeing but not seeing – Race wishes that he had never met Mouse or any of his goons.

But wishing never got nobody anywhere. Only a man's own two feet can do that.

He's dressed in his full body union suit. Even though it is the middle of August, Race isn't comfortable enough to walk around the lodging house half-naked like some of the other boys. There's some things a fella has to keep private, Race figures, and the shape of his body is one of them. That's for the dames to see and the dames only.

But the weight of the cloth is stifling to him – even if it's is own thoughts that are really to blame for the suffocation and not his clothes. He exhales and inhales as quickly as he can, trying to get the images out of his head. It doesn't work as well as he would have liked and he knows that if he tries to go back asleep, only more nightmares will be waiting for him.

Rather than face that, Race sits up in his bunk. He can barely make out the bulge of the body lying above him, sleeping all peaceful-like, and he wonders what he wouldn't give to be resting. He exhales again and swivels his body. His bare feet are pressing against the sticky lodging house floor.

Normally the feel of the floor is enough to settle his many anxieties and insecurities. He's been in this lodging house so long now that it's hard to imagine a time when he was anywhere else – the floor tells him that he is home. But not this time. All it does is reminds Race about shoes. Goddamn shoes. Shoes that remind him of Mush and of seven dollars and of Mouse McGuire. Of squish and squeaks and nothingness.

He sighs. He has the vague sensation that he wants to be sick but there's really no strength left for that… so he sighs. Race knows he ain't going back to sleep anytime soon. It was a waste of a good nickel to pay for lodging fare – he would have been better off on the street.

Race stands up and pulls on the top drawer of the dresser that separates his bunk from Snipeshooter's. He had shoved his trousers and his shirt in there before going to bed; he could almost hear the garments whispering his name. Giving into the unheard temptation – even though more layers will only serve to heighten his sense of asphyxiation – he pulls on the slacks, right over the union suit.

The shirt is next and his hands are slightly shakings as he does up the buttons. He neglects that familiar vest of his and leaves his hat behind. Hell, he doesn't even put shoes on. But, of course, that's for a different reason, entirely.

Vaguely, he wonders if Mush's thick feet would fit into his shoes. Maybe propose a trade – his shoes for the seven dollars. Everyone would be happy – everyone would win. If it wasn't for the fact that Mush was bigger than him… that his feet would never squeeze into Race's smaller shoes…

Trying to get his mind off of a myriad of unpleasantries, Race begins to talk to himself.

"I gotta take a little time," Race mumbles to himself, alone – but not alone – in the darkness. He begins to search the top of the dresser for the dented tin he knows is there. His stubby fingers find the box and quickly pry the top off. It makes a slight popping noise. His nose meets the strong aroma of seven half-smoked cigars and he savors the scent.

Snipeshooter sniffles in his sleep and turns over. Race can barely make out the younger boy's face but he sees that Snipes is asleep. That's a good thing.

He scoops his hand into the tin and draws out three of the larger stems. He doesn't know how long he's going to sit out on the porch. He shoves them into the pockets of his trousers and gently settles the tin's lid back in place. "I gotta think things over," he says to himself before putting the box back in its place.

Without the stale, but damn near intoxicating scent of an old stogie, Snipes unwittingly turns away from Race. The boy is still asleep.

Racetrack Higgins wishes he could be that lucky. And he wonders if Snipeshooter's shoes would fit Mush.


	10. August 16, 1899 4:00 am

Author's Note: _Next chapter. And, yes, it's a very short chapter… for two reasons. One… I'm running out of ideas on how to wake these boys up and make them interesting in the middle of the night and Two… David was being very mean to me tonight. He did not want his chapter to be written but I begged and I pleaded and yes… I even squandered a bit of my dignity for the sake of a fictional character. But I did it and here it is – chapter 10._

Disclaimer: _I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original characters shamelessly borrowed from Newsies – they are the property of Disney, © 1992. Any other character, when noted, is the property of this author._

--

Sin City

--

_Before Las Vegas, there was New York City...  
__One day in the life of five newsboys in 1899 Manhattan._

--

_Sure. And maybe after I've pulled off that miracle, I'll go and punch out God…_

--

**4:48 am**

David can hardly sleep. He has been drifting in an out of a half sleep ever since Sarah spoke with him, heavy thoughts weighing on his mind. His pillow has been pulled and pushed this way and that until his cheek is no longer making contact with the expected softness; instead, he is lying flat on itchy sheets.

Though his blue eyes are clamped tight, as if he is trying to trick himself into believing that he is, in fact, sleep, David knows his attempts are futile. He sighs. He can nearly feel the lure of a peaceful sleep, hovering _just _out of his grasp. He reaches for it but misses; wearily, he opens one of his eyes and sees that it is still dark.

That annoys him. He had been hoping that when he opened his eyes he would see the rising sun – or something that stood as a signal for the new day. As it is, he just wants to forget the night before (even though he knows he won't). But the night is growing every longer and there is nothing that David can do about it. Or is there…

Rather than go back to pretending that he is asleep again, David sits up and brushes his thin blanket off to the side. He rubs his eyes once before climbing out of his bed. After he returned to his family's apartment, he had removed his pants and button-down shirt and placed them, carefully, across the dresser in the small room – almost blindly, he stumbles over to that dresser.

He gropes about in the darkness, fingers finally finding the worn material. David slips his hand inside his pocket and draws out the slightly dust brass watch he keeps inside. With a silent _click_, he opens the lid and tries his damndest to make out the time.

He can't. It's dark and it's almost impossible to make out the position of the hands. He shakes his curly-haired head and shoves the watch back in his pocket. But he does not go back to bed.

As quietly as he can, David slides his pants up and does up the buttons. The shirt goes on next and, without even bothering with socks, he slips his feet into his shoes.

David turns around, his ears straining to hear if anyone is stirring. He does not want to have to explain to his brother or his sister (or his parents for that matter) just what he is doing; he's not too sure himself.

Before he knows it, his feet lead him out of the apartment and up to the rooftop. The crisp, late summer air is soothing to him and the tension – the tension that he is not even aware that he is a slave too – seems to fade with every deep breath. David does not pause at the entry to the roof, though. He continues moving forward until his shins are against the edge of the wall. Only then, with the whole of New York splayed out before him, does he stop.

New York at night has always been a favorite sight of David's – especially from the envious perch of his apartment building's rooftop. When he's up there, he has the ability to watch as the city slumbers away. He can spy quietly over the vastness, taking in all of New York with a set of blue eyes; the immeasurable length of the horizon normally holding the power of making his problems dwindle away in comparison to the sheer size.

Not this night, though. Oh, yes… he feels a bit better. Yes… his jaw has unclenched itself. But, still… David Jacobs has no idea as to what he's going to do come morning. When the big, yellow moon hides itself away and the sun's beams wash over the city, bringing all the night's deeds to day, David will have to make a decision.

It's a decision he does not want to make.

Shaking his head, he glances up. It feels as it the moon is shining down on him especially – and he doesn't like that feeling. Defiantly, the boy stares back.

Not breaking his gaze with the great orb in the midnight sky, David reaches back into his pocket and pulls out the old watch. With the generous supply of lunar light, he lifts it up to his face and can finally see the position of the dark hands. He groans. It's nearly five in the morning – the distribution center won't open for another hour at least.

The pocket watch is snapped shut and it slides back into the sanctuary of David's trousers as his eyes remain unblinkingly forward. He can't tell whether he is peeved or relieved that it is only quarter to five.

He wants the night to finish… but he doesn't. He wants to confront Jack… but he doesn't.

David sighs. The way he sees it, it all comes down to loyalty. Loyalty to Sarah, his flesh and blood, or loyalty to Jack, the first real friend he ever made. He's got to either abide by Sarah's wishes and find out just what the hell Jack is up to and rat out his pal or he can save Sarah unnecessary heartache – and Jack trouble – by keeping his mouth shut.

David has never been good at keeping his mouth shut.

The nerves, previously assuaged by the night air, come back as his senses linger on the room he had unwittingly followed Jack into. The cramped, smoky environment was so intimidating to him and, as he thinks of Jack choosing to purposely seek out that establishment – and the entertainment it provides – his stomach tightens again.

Briefly – and not for the first time, hence the reason he's out on the rooftop at quarter to five in the morning – he wonders why Jack feels the need to enter those doors. Maybe, he thinks to himself as his right hand absently rubs the polished surface of his pocket watch, he can talk this whole thing over rationally with Jack. Make him see the faults in his sinful behavior, and, who knows, maybe even convince the older boy to leave those loose women behind him…

Yeah. And maybe after he pulls that miracle off, he can go run for mayor of New York.


	11. August 16, 1899 5:00 am

Author's Note: _Next chapter. And it's the shortest of the bunch (of course – for a reason… poor Mush really doesn't all that big of a role yet. But it will change, hehe). But, on the upside, this chapter marks the end of the nighttime chapters. Starting with the next one, we'll go back to the earlier format for a bit (and longer chapters, too). Enjoy!_

Disclaimer: _I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original characters shamelessly borrowed from Newsies – they are the property of Disney, © 1992. Any other character, when noted, is the property of this author._

--

Sin City

--

_Before Las Vegas, there was New York City...  
__One day in the life of five newsboys in 1899 Manhattan._

--

_This is a fine, grand country.  
__Guiding light of the modern world, it is…_

--

**5:31 am**

Mush is a heavy sleeper. He always has been. It's strange, really. In a place where you can never be too sure who your pal is, or what they're willing to give up just to get a bit for themselves, you would think that every single one of those boys would be sleeping on edge – just waiting.

Race is a light sleeper, so is Skittery. Hell, even Jack will come up with an automatic retort when ol' Kloppman tries to wake him up in the morning. But Mush? Mush can sleep through anything. It's pretty much a proven thing, too. Not that Mush knows that; he was sleeping at the time.

It was Kid Blink who found that out for true. It was a wager between him and Race. Three pennies said that Blink couldn't wake Mush up before the time that Kloppman roused the others. Blink accepted the bet – forgetting the cardinal rule that you should never bet Racetrack on _anything_ – and went about trying to wake the boy up.

Poking Mush in his exposed chest didn't work, neither did prodding his side. A splash of cool water only enticed Mush to roll his face into his pillow. Even placing Specs' old, dirty shoes on Mush's pillow, and wafting the foul odor in his direction did nothing.

Mush just would not wake. With that silly grin splayed out across his face, Mush slept. And Racetrack chuckled as he accepted a frustrated Blink's three pennies. Then, when Kloppman swept by not ten minutes later and Mush woke up, the poor boy was confused that Blink greeted him with a (not so) playful slap across his face.

The answer is simple really. As naïve as Mush is, he knows what is expected of him in his meager existence. He needs to smile and talk to the other boys and sell his papers. He'll do that until he outgrows the lodging house bunk and then he'll go on to have some mediocre factory job. Maybe find a wife and add to the growing surplus population in the New York City slums. But that's about it. And he understands that. He loves New York, he loves America – but he's poor, and he's got darker skin than the others. There isn't much for him, he knows this. Mush'll do what he's gotta do and then he'll die.

But, when he's sleeping, he can pretend that there is more out there for a bastard child that nobody wanted. In fact, the only time he can put up a fight against what is expected of him is when he's dreaming.

Mush can be whatever he wants, can do whatever he wants, go wherever he wants… when's he's dreaming. And he's sure as hell not going to give up any of that fantastical time by rising from it early. If he gives it away by cracking open his eyes, he can't get it back. Reality is a bitch.

Six o'clock.

Kloppman has an old pocket watch that he has on his person at all times. He uses the damn thing to set everything by. Six o'clock in the morning – he wakes up the boys. Five o'clock in the afternoon – the hot meal, available for an additional five cents, is ready. Eleven o'clock at night – curfew. Every day, the same thing. Tumbler swears that you can set your whole day by Kloppman and his actions. Mush agrees.

So it goes that every morning, six o'clock, Kloppman checks his watch and makes his way up to the bunkroom. Boots is woken up first, on account of his bunk being closest to the entrance. Then, maybe Snaps.

Or Skittery. Not many of the others don't stay asleep much longer after Kloppman gets Skittery up. He always has some smart ass reply to Kloppman's call; he's loud and his mouth alone is enough to steal half of the other lodgers from their own dreams.

But not Mush. Kloppman doesn't even bother trying to wake up that boy any more – and he doesn't need to. Not before every single one of the others are awake will Mush rise. But he won't be as sleepy as his peers. No, there'll be a genial smile on his face as he makes idle chatter. Maybe ask a few of them how they slept, or brag about some conquest or another.

Mush may not necessarily be a morning person but he sure could fool anyone.

But it's not six o'clock.

Even though he doesn't know it exactly, it's only half past five. And Mush is stirring.

It had been a strange dream and, unlike most of his, indiscernible. Whereas his nightly escapes from the dreary life of a newsboy are usually vivid and alive, this one was fuzzy… there isn't much he can remember about it except it felt like he had been watched. And something was on fire. He definitely remembered smelling smoke.

Mush opens his eyes and, with a loud yawn, sits up in his top bunk. He scratches his head, dirty fingers getting caught up in coarse, dark tangles, as he wonders what exactly woke him up. It is still somewhat dark – the sun is only halfway done with its morning ascent – and he can't see anything out of the ordinary.

He's not that tired though and, by the position of the sun, Mush knows that he has not risen all too early. Perhaps by a quarter of an hour, or maybe half – but, as his brain registers the fact that it is a new day, surely enough time to wash up and make it to the locker stores.

It never hurts to count his money one extra time before going out to carry the banner.

Just in case…


	12. August 16, 1899 6:00 am

Author's Note: _Well look at what we have here… another chapter of Sin City, woot. This takes us back to the earlier format – we got a little bit of all of the characters here. It's still early and all but this chapter is slowly setting up the conclusion of this story. (Key word, slowly) So, yes, enjoy and all that jazz. _

Disclaimer: _I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original characters shamelessly borrowed from Newsies – they are the property of Disney, © 1992. Any other character, when noted, is the property of this author._

--

Sin City

--

_Before Las Vegas, there was New York City...  
__One day in the life of five newsboys in 1899 Manhattan._

--  
_  
J__ust like that, a whopper of a puzzle piece falls smack in my lap.  
__I'm too dumb to put the whole picture together yet, but..._

--

**6:01 am**

"The presses are rolling. Sell the papes. C'mon, boys, it's time to sell the papes! Get up, get up, get up!"

For the first time in only God knows how long, Jack Kelly is awake before Kloppman reaches his bunk. He is lying on his back, arms folded behind his head, as he stares at the bunkroom ceiling. It's a good ceiling, he figures, nice and clean. Sturdy, too. He's heard about buildings collapsing because they weren't worth the beams they were built with. The beams buckled and the walls came crumbling down. Killed peopled, too.

Building collapses. That's what Jack is thinking about when Kloppman reaches a gnarled and wrinkled hand out to wake him up. He's thinking about those poor suckers who don't have a sturdy roof over their head.

And it reminds him of a particular headline from a couple years back. One of few headlines that he didn't have to improve in order to sell through his stack of a hundred – it's the weird (and tragic, really) headlines that stick with him. _TRAGEDY: Building Falls, Thirteen Die._

It was a joke for some time later amongst the younger boys. Back then, when Jack was about thirteen – _no, fourteen_, he corrects himself – there was a rather large boy called Fatty O'Malley. He was a head taller than most and at least twice as wide. He was an orphan, or so he said, but never seemed to diminish in size (something that Jack could never figure out); he did live in the lodging house, though, paying his fare and selling papers alongside the others.

All the boys liked to poke fun at Fatty for his weight – with Fatty being one of the nicer names they had for him. And, after the story of the building collapse… well, the younger boys – with Jack as the ringleader – began to suggest that, should Fatty go any further than the first floor, the whole lodging house would buckle under his bulk.

It started as a joke, as most childhood teasing does, but soon progressed into absolute fact. They were convinced that Fatty would murder them all by joining them in the bunkroom – despite the fact that he had been part of the lodging house for years. Fatty tried to point that out, with Kloppman – acting as the responsible adult – backing him up.

It did not work, though. And then, one day, Fatty was gone. Packed up his stuff, cleaned out his locker and vanished.

Sometimes, when Jack tries not to stew on all of the shit that he is going though, he thinks of Fatty O'Malley. He wonders where the big boy went. He wonders if he ever brought a house down with his weight.

And then he feels like a complete and utter ass.

It's a feeling that Jack Kelly is quite familiar with.

Kloppman's hand brushes Jack's arm. The old supervisor sees that the boy is already awake and pulls his hand back. "Up and at 'em, Cowboy. Time to sell the papes."

There's no smart aleck grin on Jack Kelly's face but the dark circles under his eyes are unmistakable. His unrest is a liability that he can not afford but there is nothing he can do about it now. It's a new day, it is. And a new day means another hundred papes he's got to sell.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he replies, slowly sitting up and pushing his greasy hair back away from his face. He yawns once and shoves all unpleasantness – the night before with Lucy, his lapse in good judgment, the sense that he had been followed, even the morbid curiosity about what happened to Fatty O'Malley – out of his mind. He needs to be in top form for when he meets up with Dave.

He can't have Dave trying to figure out that something's wrong, after all.

--

**6:03 am**

Skittery is still sleeping, deeper than he had been earlier. After visiting Faye's room, he had returned to the ground but he did not resume his position on the stoop. Instead, he sat down, in the dust, beside the fire escape. He was tired, he was cranky and he did not feel like moving.

That is, until he was drenched from head to toe.

His dark eyes spring open as soon as the liquid – which, on close examination, appears to be just water – came splashing down upon him. He is on his feet almost as fast, his head jerked upwards as if he is trying to tell where the unwanted bath came from.

There is no one that he can see, though he swears that he heard the tell-tale clicking of a window being shut. And, perhaps, a girlish laugh, ringing out high above him.

Then again, it might just be his imagination. It had been a rough night; he did not sleep very well – and what dreams he had were unpleasant.

He pushes at his sopping wet hair as he dejectedly turns his eyes back to the once dirt, now mud concoction at his feet. He taps his foot, sending splatters of mud outward, as well as up the leg of his trouser. He scowls.

_What do I do now?_

Skittery wipes at the (hopefully clean) water that is currently dripping down his neck and drenching his shirt. There's not much that he can do, really. Part of him wants to stay near Faye's home in the hopes that he can convince her to talk to him. But, the more realistic part of him – the glum 'n dumb part – thinks it is hopeless; that he would be better going off on his own, selling the morning edition of the _World_, earning some money and, perhaps, eating something for a change.

He begins to debate the positives and negatives to each of his two options but, before he has gotten very far, he hears a strange rumbling. It's loud and obnoxious and it takes him a second to realize that the sound is coming from _him_.

Skittery's stomach has just made his mind up for him.

"Breakfast it is then," he mutters to himself, sticking his damp hands into his pockets. "And then I guess I'll go from there."

One can not try to win back their girl on an empty stomach, after all.

--

**6:06 am**

It's only been a couple of hours since he left the lodging house but Racetrack has not gotten very far. As soon as he snuck out of the back door, he retook up his perch from earlier in the night. It is a beautiful morning and, really, Race has nowhere else to go.

Of the three cigar butts that he brought with him when he left, there is only one left. He tries his best to make it last. The constant breathing in of the nicotine is the only thing keeping him sane, just then.

It is a struggle, though his fingers are stubby themselves, to keep the ends of the cigar in his mouth without the ends burning his skin. He takes another drag, shorter than he would like, as he listens to the sounds of the others getting ready for the day. The sounds annoy him.

He envies them. He does. As hard as he knows an orphan's life is – and as much as he knows that everything he is going through is his fault – he still envies them all. The others, the ones who don't have a seven dollar debt to a ferocious rat-obsessed bookie; the ones who aren't contemplating ripping off the most innocent of their comrades.

The ones who are not Racetrack Higgins.

He sighs and stands up, tossing the remnants of his cigar to the ground. He steps on it more viciously than he should and sighs again.

Race is aware that – based on the upsurge of sound coming from the lodging house – that it is nearly time for the distribution center to open. For one second, one brief second, he wonders if it would be pointless to try to pretend as if everything is fine.

But it's impossible, he knows, to make seven dollars in one day, simply selling papers. Therefore, why should he even try?

He groans out loud. The more time he spends stewing on Mouse's warnings is just another second, minute, _hour_ closer until his deadline is up.

_Squish. _Racetrack shudders.

Stealing Mush's money, while looking all the more tempting with the smoking of another cigar, is his last resort. Race knows this. But what else can he do?

That's when it dawns on him.

Perhaps there is another way.

And it really isn't _that _far to Brooklyn, after all.

--

**6:10 am**

--

"Nine dollars and sixty-six cents… nine dollars and sixty-sevens cents… nine dollars and sixty-eight cents… nine dollars and sixty-nine cents… nine dollars and seventy cents."

Mush nods, his lips curling up slightly. $9.70. Only thirty cents left until he hits his ten dollar goal.

His curly-haired head nearly swallowed up by the locker, all Mush sees are mounds upon mounds of coppers, with a few liberty-head nickels and the odd dime – and, even rarer, a quarter or three – mixed in. It's such a sight and he knows that his locker will seem quite empty when he loads his earnings into a satchel and brings it downtown to purchase his new shoes.

Of course, his callused and blistered feet in mind, the boy knows that it is much better to have a bare locker than bare feet.

Just then, he pulls his head back and cocks his head to the side. _Thump, thump, bang…_

With a wider smile, Mush recognizes the noise. He can hear the frantic steps of his fellow lodgers above him. It is time for the boys to prepare for their day of selling – an ordinary, regular day of selling.

A little nervous that one of the boys might dress and wash up before the others, and maybe interrupt Mush's session with his money, he hurriedly reaches his dirty hand into the open hole. He grabs at a particularly small mound of pennies and, drawing his hand back and forming it into a bowl, Mush quickly counts it out.

There are sixteen pennies sitting in his palm. Sixteen pennies means thirty-two papers. It's a strange amount to ask the operator of the distribution center; he puts one of the dull coppers back to rest within his hoard and slams the locker door shut.

Thirty papes sounds good to Mush. Not as many as he would usually buy but he is feeling a bit giddy that morning; he would rather head out with a pal and have fun – just knowing that his goal is so close that he could almost taste it is enough to entice him to enjoy the late summer morning.

And if he sells all of his papers – which he should, since it's not much – that's fifteen cents profit he'll get out of an easy morning. He'll use five cents for his lodging fare, five for supper (if he can't use his sweet face to get it for free)… at the very least, he'll be able to add another nickel to his pile.

Mush is still smiling. The way he sees it, he should have his shoes by the end of the week.

And there's nothing that can make him happier, after all.

--

**6:31 am**

David is dawdling. He took his time washing up and changing his clothes and now, as he heads across town, towards the distribution center, he is purposely dragging his feet. He knows what is at the end of his journey and he is not looking forward to seeing Jack.

He is proud of his foresight, though. He's pretty sure that, eventually, he'll have to confront Jack with his knowledge – and he does not want Les to be around when he does that.

After sneaking back into his apartment – though it was not very sneaky, given that both his mother and father were up – he spoke to his mother and asked her if she'd mind keeping Les in. His mother is an intuitive woman but, luckily for David, she did not ask any questions. She just nodded and hurried him off with a knowing grin. It was not a happy smile, though. David thought it probably mirrored the concerned expression carved into his own face.

David refuses to hurry. His stomach is tied into knots and his Adam's apple is quivering as he wrings his hands. He's not afraid of Jack, or what his pal will say (no, that's not true – he _is _afraid of what Jack will have to say in response), but that does not make this trek any easier.

Every door he passes reminds him of the one he entered the night before. Every slow walking boy on the street makes him wonder if they, too, are returning from a guilty jaunt. Every hat-adorned young miss brings the image of his sister to his mind. He cringes.

Sarah. Poor Sarah.

David stops wringing his hands. Instead, he lowers them to his side and clenches them.

_What is wrong with Jack?_

He's doing this for her – for Sarah. She deserves to know the truth. Sarah (not to mention Les) thinks the world of Jack Kelly; if Jack is deceiving her by visiting a house of ill-fame, then Sarah needs to know. And, as her brother, it is up to David to speak to his friend and learn the truth of what he had spied.

Not that he really expects Jack to tell him the truth.

Though, if he does, that'll bring his tally up to… two, perhaps.

But two is better than none, after all.

--

_Right?_


End file.
